year!”
Some of the men in the crowd chuckled.
“Listen up, folks. We’ve got a six-in-one to beat the band. This is what your neighbors will be talking about at the grocery store and the dancehall, and even”—Jackal winked—“at the church social. This is what you’ll tell your grandkids about when they ask you for your best stories. They’ll say, ‘Tell me a story,’ and you’ll say, ‘Have I told you about the time I saw the fattest woman in the world and The Wild Albinos of Bora Bora?’ Yes, sir. Yes, ma’am. This is where it’s at.”
He lowered his voice just a bit, hitting a conspiratorial tone. “And would you believe you can see every one of these marvelous marvels for only a quarter?”
The next to go: anyone without a quarter. Or the willingness to spend it.
There was still a decently large crowd, though, and Jackal gestured to the podium, where Anna waited to collect the money in a tin can while he went inside to wait for his audience.
Portia stepped off the side of the stage and joined the slow herd of spectators entering the six-in-one.
It was hot.
It smelled like sawdust.
The crowd inched forward as if they had been set to slow motion.
It was darker than the waning day outside, and the sounds dimmed, too. None of the happy chatter, the vendors calling out, the music, the animals. There was only the low buzz of urgent whispers, the occasional stifled laugh. And then, before Portia’s eyes had even adjusted, Jackal began to speak. “Step in, step in, folks! Plenty of room for everyone!”
Portia could see now that the tent was much bigger than it needed to be. It was mostly empty, even with Jackal’s voice pouring into every corner. There was one long stage laid down the middle, like a giant dining room table, with room on all sides for walking around. Room for the rubes to see the freaks from every angle. The entrance brought them to the front of the stage, where Mrs. Murphy sat in a plush blue wingback chair.
Portia knew she should be listening to Jackal—that was why he had let her in, so she could witness his ballyhoo—but something about seeing her new companions at work, lined up on the stage like a buffet, made it difficult to concentrate.
Mrs. Murphy was looking very intently into her lap, and as Portia was drawn forward, she saw the woman’s hands moving steadily, rhythmically. Needlepoint. She was working on her needlepoint.
Portia thought of the dozens of needlepoint pillows in Mrs. Murphy’s trailer and began to feel a little ill.
There was a small placard fixed to the front of the stage. EMMELINE MURPHY, it said. BEARDED LADY.
The man in front of her elbowed his friend. “Her beard’s better-looking than yours, Fred!” They both barked with laughter.
He’s right, Portia thought. Mrs. Murphy’s beard was red and gold, so silky it glowed like an oil painting.
Still, Mrs. Murphy did not look up.
Mrs. Collington, on the other hand, smiled and waved so the flesh under her arm danced hypnotically. No one waved back, so Portia raised her hand to say hello, but the expression on Mrs. Collington’s face didn’t change, even a little bit. Then Portia realized that she wasn’t waving to the crowd. Or at least, she wasn’t looking at the crowd. She was looking over their heads—giving the appearance of being happy to see them, of being the friendly, jolly fat lady they expected and had paid to see.
MRS. COLLINGTON, her placard said. 800 POUNDS.
Jimmy and Jim were, of course, next to each other, labeled WORLD’S SMALLEST MAN and IRISH GIANT . Portia wondered if Jim was in fact the tallest man in the world but had to admit she’d never seen anyone taller and probably neither had anyone else in the crowd, so who were they to argue? He looked rather sad and resigned to sitting there and letting people stare at his ankles, which showed because his pants were never long enough. Even though he made them himself. He always underestimated how tall he really
Some of the men in the crowd chuckled.
“Listen up, folks. We’ve got a six-in-one to beat the band. This is what your neighbors will be talking about at the grocery store and the dancehall, and even”—Jackal winked—“at the church social. This is what you’ll tell your grandkids about when they ask you for your best stories. They’ll say, ‘Tell me a story,’ and you’ll say, ‘Have I told you about the time I saw the fattest woman in the world and The Wild Albinos of Bora Bora?’ Yes, sir. Yes, ma’am. This is where it’s at.”
He lowered his voice just a bit, hitting a conspiratorial tone. “And would you believe you can see every one of these marvelous marvels for only a quarter?”
The next to go: anyone without a quarter. Or the willingness to spend it.
There was still a decently large crowd, though, and Jackal gestured to the podium, where Anna waited to collect the money in a tin can while he went inside to wait for his audience.
Portia stepped off the side of the stage and joined the slow herd of spectators entering the six-in-one.
It was hot.
It smelled like sawdust.
The crowd inched forward as if they had been set to slow motion.
It was darker than the waning day outside, and the sounds dimmed, too. None of the happy chatter, the vendors calling out, the music, the animals. There was only the low buzz of urgent whispers, the occasional stifled laugh. And then, before Portia’s eyes had even adjusted, Jackal began to speak. “Step in, step in, folks! Plenty of room for everyone!”
Portia could see now that the tent was much bigger than it needed to be. It was mostly empty, even with Jackal’s voice pouring into every corner. There was one long stage laid down the middle, like a giant dining room table, with room on all sides for walking around. Room for the rubes to see the freaks from every angle. The entrance brought them to the front of the stage, where Mrs. Murphy sat in a plush blue wingback chair.
Portia knew she should be listening to Jackal—that was why he had let her in, so she could witness his ballyhoo—but something about seeing her new companions at work, lined up on the stage like a buffet, made it difficult to concentrate.
Mrs. Murphy was looking very intently into her lap, and as Portia was drawn forward, she saw the woman’s hands moving steadily, rhythmically. Needlepoint. She was working on her needlepoint.
Portia thought of the dozens of needlepoint pillows in Mrs. Murphy’s trailer and began to feel a little ill.
There was a small placard fixed to the front of the stage. EMMELINE MURPHY, it said. BEARDED LADY.
The man in front of her elbowed his friend. “Her beard’s better-looking than yours, Fred!” They both barked with laughter.
He’s right, Portia thought. Mrs. Murphy’s beard was red and gold, so silky it glowed like an oil painting.
Still, Mrs. Murphy did not look up.
Mrs. Collington, on the other hand, smiled and waved so the flesh under her arm danced hypnotically. No one waved back, so Portia raised her hand to say hello, but the expression on Mrs. Collington’s face didn’t change, even a little bit. Then Portia realized that she wasn’t waving to the crowd. Or at least, she wasn’t looking at the crowd. She was looking over their heads—giving the appearance of being happy to see them, of being the friendly, jolly fat lady they expected and had paid to see.
MRS. COLLINGTON, her placard said. 800 POUNDS.
Jimmy and Jim were, of course, next to each other, labeled WORLD’S SMALLEST MAN and IRISH GIANT . Portia wondered if Jim was in fact the tallest man in the world but had to admit she’d never seen anyone taller and probably neither had anyone else in the crowd, so who were they to argue? He looked rather sad and resigned to sitting there and letting people stare at his ankles, which showed because his pants were never long enough. Even though he made them himself. He always underestimated how tall he really
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